


From the Ashes of the Dead

by Teese



Series: The Depths of Darkness [2]
Category: Burzum (Band), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Past, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:52:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varg is about to learn exactly how dark and evil black metal can be... will there be a light to guide him through the darkness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Howling Wind

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two : ) I prefer to be as secretive as possible, so that my readers may be as surprised as possible, but I will tell you that the conflict between Varg and Euro will reach its peak. Oh, and Pelle will enter the story soon enough.
> 
> I love writing this : ) comments are appreciated

The wind howled about the red wooden building. Wisps of smoke drifted from its chimney, testifying to the poor insulation of the home. It had been built in the late 1940s and hadn’t been renovated in the last twenty years or so, but it was charming nonetheless. In the cosy living room, Varg lounged on a leather armchair, one leg resting on his other knee. His hand lingered on top of the telephone, waiting for an important call. Øystein was taking his time. Varg had been waiting for nearly half an hour and he was starting to become a little impatient. He had wanted to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible.

There was complete silence in the house except for the howl of the wind. Varg had become familiar with the sound; it had accompanied the house. The small wooden house stood by itself in the periphery of the city and was therefore more exposed to the forces of nature. Varg quite enjoyed it. He enjoyed the proximity to nature and the isolation that came with it.

The house itself wasn’t much to brag about. It had two bedrooms, one of which had decent size, but it had of course been turned into a rehearsal space. While the other bedroom was only big enough for his mattress to fit in there, he hadn’t felt entirely uncomfortable about the fact. It felt a bit like a cave – dark and safe. And safety had become a growing concern of his.

His pensive thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Varg, though reserved about speaking to Øystein at all, was quick to pick up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said, trying his best to make his voice sound cold and intimidating. There was a brief pause. “Varg?” he heard a familiar voice ask. It most certainly wasn’t who he had expected.

“Oh, Jørn!” he said and almost started laughing. “I was expecting someone… well, I expected to hear from Øystein.”

“Yeah, he told me to call you up. He left about five minutes ago. He’s been busy setting up that record shop of his,” the older man informed him. Varg could picture him rolling his eyes as he sat there, annoyed with Øystein and his wild notions. Most of them weren’t rooted in reality, like the time he wanted to be a Marxist, only to discover that Marx was in fact a humanitarian. Then he had become a fascist instead.

“But you’re coming on Monday, right?”

“As far as I know,” Jørn answered. “He’s been really excited about seeing you again.”

“… Øystein?”

“Who else?”

Varg drew in a sharp breath. He wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of Øystein being excited about seeing him. In retrospect he realised that the verbal fight in the car had been a less brilliant idea. While Varg now considered the guitarist to be his mortal enemy, Jørn and Jan remained oblivious of the lurking danger. Back in January, he had promised Pelle not to reveal Øystein’s true nature, and he had kept his lips sealed. But even if he had been true to his promise, he knew that certain wheels were about to be set in motion.

“Um… is Pelle coming with you guys?” he asked, changing the subject. This was followed by a moment of silence from the other end of the line, as if something wasn’t right. “Didn’t Øystein write to you about that?” the bassist asked, sounding a bit insecure. It instantly caused Varg to worry. “What happened?”

“… Pelle, he… he went home.”

“I do hope you mean that literally,” the younger man said, his voice laced with concern. He had not heard from the Swede since January, nearly two months ago. As a result, Varg had no knowledge of his mental condition and whether it had improved or not. When Øystein had failed to mention him in any of his letters, Varg had simply assumed that it was due to their less than pleasant conversation in the car.

There was another pause. Varg could hear the older man sighing. “I’m not sure exactly what happened. A few weeks after you left, Pelle’s dad just showed up here. He was angrier than a bull,” he said. Varg had to run his free hand through his hair, feeling more and more concerned. “He more or less dragged Pelle into the car. When Jan and I tried to ask what the hell was going on, he just told us to stay out of his way and never as much as try to get in touch with Pelle again. And Pelle… he just sat there. He didn’t even protest.”

Varg heaved a sigh of relief. “So… he’s back with his family in Sweden?”

“Yeah,” Jørn replied, but he didn’t sound nearly as relieved as Varg. “I’m just really confused about what happened… and the weirdest part is that Pelle’s dad and Øystein got into a huge argument.”

“How is that weird?” the teenager asked. “He was so abusive towards Pelle… every normal father would have been furious to know about something like that, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” the bassist agreed. “But… he kept saying that Øystein… well, that he’s a psychopath and a murderer. I mean, what did Pelle tell him?”

“… The truth, I suppose,” Varg said and turned his gaze to the shotgun at the coffee table. “Jørn… there is something I need to talk to you about, something rather urgent.” He could envision the bassist, seated in his favourite leather armchair, with a deep frown plastered on his face. It wasn’t easy for the teenager to continue this conversation, understanding that it must be hard on Jørn. He had been Øystein’s best friend from the tender age of sixteen.

“Okay. What’s that?” the older man asked, his voice sounding slightly guarded.

“You and Jan need to know that grim things may happen in the nearby future… and,” the brunette whispered, reaching for the shotgun shells on the bookshelf behind him. “I’m not sure about you guys, but I’m on Pelle’s side… with all that happened back in Ski,” he snorted. “No, Øystein’s reign of terror has lasted long enough. I mean, he’s already managed to tear Mayhem apart… that’s why Pelle didn’t protest.”

“Varg… what the fuck are you talking about?”

The younger musician glared into the roaring flames of the fireplace. “Pelle didn’t try to commit suicide by smashing a mug against his head, and he didn’t attempt self-strangulation… those were crimes committed by a certain self-proclaimed Prince of Evil…”

 

* * *

 

The guys in Mayhem were on their way to Bergen. Varg had told Jørn the truth behind Pelle’s hospitalisation in early January, which had of course made him furious. But there was more to it than that. While Euronymous himself had spent more and more time getting the record store ready for the opening day, which was right around the corner, he had lashed out at Jørn due to his wife’s pregnancy. He had spent too much time with her and too little with the band, but now that Pelle was gone, Jørn had stopped seeing the point. Even Jan was starting to see through the guitarist’s hard exterior. Besides, the things Varg had told them had really shaken them up, and they couldn’t just keep their eyes closed anymore. It had ceased to be an option.

Varg, who had been sitting around with his weapons all day, had been in dire need for some company and had gone to visit a friend in the city centre. They had played together in Old Funeral for a couple of years and were well-acquainted with each other. This friendship was meaningful due to the fact that Varg was somewhat of a lone-wolf, and as a result of his secluded lifestyle, the few friendships he had made over the years were as deep-rooted as they were rare.

They sat in a tiny one room apartment in the middle of Bergen, blaring black metal on the stereo. In spite of the loud music, the two men were in the middle of an important conversation.

“Are you sure about this?” Abbath enquired. The bassist looked as if he wasn’t entirely convinced about what Varg had been telling him regarding the guitarist of Mayhem. He too had thought that Øystein was a really cool guy. “Of course,” Varg replied. “I have to render him harmless. The things he did to Pelle… I had never thought him capable of being so nasty. I think that, in the end, he managed to brainwash himself. He _wants_ to be evil.”

“Maybe he is,” the bassist pondered. “I have heard rumours… whispers under the moonlights. At the time I didn’t believe any of it. Some of the less pure ones are gossiping quite wildly about Euronymous… but,” he said and then frowned. “A girl… she was terribly young,” he sighed remorsefully. “She came up to me not long ago, bragging about how Øystein was talking about killing Dead.”

The admittance sent little shivers down Varg’s spine. He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, willing away the images of those purplish marks on Pelle’s throat.

“She said that he wanted to convince Dead that killing himself would be the best solution. That no one would miss him and crazy shit like that.”

Varg looked at his friend with something akin to sympathy in his eyes. “I mean… had I known that it wasn’t just silly fabrication, I would’ve gone straight to you. I’m all in for the principles Black Metal is built on, but as far as killing our own… and for what? Had Pelle been some kind of psycho-“

“Øystein’s the psychotic one,” Varg interrupted and his eyes were dark and filled with anger. “And should he try something while he’s here… well, it will be the last mistake he makes.”

 

* * *

 

They were seated around the dinner table. Varg had been kind enough to prepare a meal for them, one that did not consist of hamburgers and wine, and the guys were digging in as if life depended upon it. The eighteen-year-old regarded them with coldness in his eyes. Euronymous acted as if nothing was out of order, as if they had never had that little conversation in the car, and quite frankly, Varg was starting to feel annoyed.

“We’re going to the studio tomorrow morning,” he announced, earning a few grunts in response. “You’re eager, I take it,” Øystein said and then laughed. “It’ll be great.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Varg said. He was doing the dishes by the sink, having finished his dinner before everyone else.

“Have you given your image any more thought?”

Varg rolled his eyes at Euronymous’ question. “I’ve chosen a name. I’m officially called Count Grishnackh from now on,” he said and received a few odd looks from Jan and Jørn. Neither of them were fond of literature and they knew little about Tolkien.

“Grisenakke?” Jørn asked with a frown attached to his face.

“No, not pig’s neck,” Varg said and tried to stifle a laugh. “It’s Grishnackh. A variation of an Orc-“

“No,” Jan groaned, covering his ears with his hands. “I don’t wanna hear about Lord of the Rings. Øystein has been telling me far too much.”

“Once a geek, always a geek, eh?” Øystein said and winked at the younger man. “I like it. It sounds evil. I think it will fool them into thinking that you aren’t some bratty kid.” Varg decided not to reply to the comment, but he turned his attention back to the sink instead. “It was my idea, you know,” Øystein told the other two men, both of them ignoring the statement.

“Oh, and I completely forgot to tell you about Per Yngve… his father came to reclaim him.” Varg’s eyes grew guarded and cautious, his grip tightening around the dish brush. “Okay?” was all he said in response. He wasn’t sure how long he could hide his anger. When he turned to look at the three men, he could see similar looks of distrust aimed towards Øystein.

“Yeah,” Øystein said. The tone of his voice was that of amusement. “He’ll probably shoot himself within the year… something’s seriously wrong with him, and now that he’s back in Sweden… I’d be depressed too, seeing the Black Metal scene there is just copying Entombed. Fucking poser faggots.”

Varg was holding the kitchen knife in his hand as Øystein made these utterances, and he turned to glare at him with hatred blazing in his blue eyes. “Will you stop that constant blabbering of yours?” he asked quietly, the knife still in his grasp. The guitarist’s forehead creased and his mouth fell open, as if he wanted to speak but stopped himself for a moment. “… It’s not appropriate for children to be toying with knives. Just look at Dead and see how well that went-“

“For fuck’s sake!”

Something grim that dwelled inside of the eighteen-year-old was suddenly released. It felt as if everything went dark, and suddenly he dropped the knife to the floor, pouncing on top of the shorter man. Before Øystein had the chance to react, Varg’s hands were around his neck, squeezing with all his might. Øystein began to panic and tried to get away from his attacker, but it only resulted in the two of them falling to the floor.

“That’s enough!” Jørn barked. Varg felt strong hands around his arms as he was being dragged away, and Øystein, who had never believed any of the things that Varg had warned him about, looked as if he was in shock.

“You need to get a grip,” Jørn hissed at him as he dragged him into the living room. “This is not what we discussed!”

The blue-eyed teenager looked as if he was in shock as well. He was trembling with raw emotions, emotions he wasn’t able to control or be in charge of. It was terrifying. “I-I didn’t mean to do that! Everything just… everything went black,” he whispered and looked at Jørn with big eyes. “He’s just too much… and the way he talks about Pelle-“

“He only does that to annoy you. You know that.”

“He needs to learn his place.”

Jørn looked at him with sad eyes. “I know. But now is not the right time.”

Varg nodded in vague agreement. He cursed himself for having lost control so easily, having let himself get provoked and offended by that animal. “… But I’m _not_ apologising.”


	2. Dance Macabre in G Minor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting the second chapter now as I will be absent for some time due to exams :) I also think some of you are eager to read more about Pelle...

They had finished recording the album in the duration of two days. Euronymous had insisted on doing the guitar solo on “War”, which Varg had allowed due to the little mishap the day before, but he wasn’t happy about it. He had originally wanted to do all the instrumental parts himself. It had been the whole concept of Burzum in the first place. Even so, he was fairly pleased with what they had achieved, and now everything was up to Pytten, or Eirik Hundvin. He was the very talented technician working at the studio, the guy all the true black metal bands went to.

The other guys had decided to check into some cheap motel instead of staying at the rather tiny house, knowing that there was only one bedroom. Besides, the night they had spent there had been somewhat complicated, and Varg wasn’t sure he would be able to sleep with Øystein in his house. One could only imagine what grim things could transpire between them.

When Varg went to bed that night, he was completely exhausted from the long days he had endured. It wasn’t the work itself, he quite liked putting his soul and mind into his music, but having to be so close to Øystein had been a challenge. The man, in spite of having been attacked two days earlier, had been in a freakishly good mood, something that kind of unsettled Varg. He must have had something cruel in mind.

He decided not to think about Euronymous. The man didn’t deserve the attention that he so desperately craved.

His mind began to wander, and the teenager began thinking about Pelle instead. He tried to picture his face before him, thinking of that lush mane of blonde hair and those big, blue eyes of innocence. Never had he injured another person, and never had he done anything but good for the band. It made Øystein’s psychotic behaviour seem all the more cruel. He hoped that the blonde’s health was improving now that he was back in Sweden, that his family was providing him with the help that he needed. The man was still a victim to his own darkness. In spite of this fact, Varg still adored the childlike openness in him, and then there was that rare smile of a thousand suns. He missed that smile quite a bit.

With Pelle’s smiling face in mind, he allowed for sleep to claim him and carry him away into dreamland, to where Øystein couldn’t harm him.

 

* * *

 

It would be an eventful day for the eighteen-year-old. He was blissfully unaware of this as he was still trapped in dreamland. His mouth was slightly open, allowing for nearly inaudible snores to escape, and while he wouldn’t remember any of it when he’d finally wake up, he was dreaming about quite pleasant things.

An odd sound was what awoke him, though he couldn’t understand what it had been, and he quickly dismissed it as a result of foul weather conditions. But when he had finally dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, he had heard it yet again. Someone was knocking on the door. When he looked at his wristwatch, he couldn’t understand who it was. It was way too early for any of the guys in Mayhem to have as much as thought about getting out of bed.

He opened the door slightly, worried that some Finnish poser was about to burn down his house, and he peeked through the gap. The sight that met him was not one he had expected, and he had made up his mind to be ready for all kinds of crazy scenarios.

“Pelle,” he thought out loud and opened the door wide, allowing for the Swede to enter. “Come in, please.”

The blonde was smiling an uncharacteristically large smile, and he entered the living room, pulling off his heavy boots and leather jacket.

Varg closed the door, locked it and followed Pelle into the living room. He had begun tossing wood into the fireplace, obviously cold from having waited outside for Odin knows how long. Varg went to find the matches, him too feeling the low temperature on his skin. The house was old and it was difficult to keep it warm during winter. When they had finally given life to a fiery flame, they sat down in the sofa and watched as the flickering flames ate away at the wood, radiating well-received heat.

“Are you on welfare?” Pelle asked after he had started warming up again. Varg realised that he was wondering about the house. “No, I still attend school… well, in theory. My mum is renting this place for me.”

“Why?” Pelle enquired, raising one brow. “My step-father and I don’t get along,” Varg answered and gave a half shrug. “It is mainly because he’s so deeply delusional. He’s religious and… well, we don’t get along.”

The Swede nodded. An amused smile was tugging at his lips.

“So, why are you here?” Varg asked, not really certain how to articulate the question. He didn’t want to sound harsh, but the timing was far from good. Pelle glanced at him from the corner of his eye, pretending to be more fascinated by the fireplace than the younger man. “I missed you,” he said with a bluntness that nearly knocked the brunette off his seat. “Oh,” was all he said, which drew a smile from the twenty-two-year-old man.

“You’re the only person I’ve felt close to while I’ve been in this country,” he explained and then slouched into the sofa. There was something strange about him, something that had changed from when they had last seen each other back in Ski. Rather than radiating gloominess and darkness, those things he had lost himself to, he was now smiling and emitting light. “The only one I missed while I was tucked away.”

“… Tucked away?” the brunette asked, frowning at the peculiar choice of words. “I thought you were at home in Sweden?”

The blonde sighed. Sadness was quick to overtake his features, but it wasn’t anything like the depression that had haunted his face before. “My dad took me home, but… I felt like I was dead. Nothing they did or could have done had any impact on me…” His words faltered then, and he looked at Varg for a long time, almost not bearing to explain the pain he had endured. “I slit my wrists. My brother… he’s a year younger than you, he found me. I was sent to a mental hospital after that, and stayed there for… well, maybe three weeks. And then I went home… but I had to undergo treatment. I spoke to a psychologist every other day until a week ago.”

“How are you now?” the teenager asked. He felt moved and overwhelmed by the story he had been told, and while he was not surprised to hear about the unfortunate chain of events, he was still shaken to hear that Pelle had attempted to commit suicide. Varg couldn’t help but to feel guilty that he hadn’t been there, but then again, they hadn’t been close friends, and they weren’t related. For some reason, Varg felt protective of the vocalist, almost as if they were family. Perhaps the childlike behaviour triggered some parental instincts in him, Varg couldn’t be sure. He chose not to think about it beyond this explanation.

“Honestly,” Pelle said and turned to face the brunette. There was once again a smile on his lips. “I feel better than I have in years… friends of old have visited me, and they say I am my former self again…”

“… But?” Varg said, sensing that there was some hesitation.

Pelle started fiddling with loose threads on his sleeve. “My psychologist says Mayhem did me no favours, but… I have poured my soul into the band. I almost miss Jan and Jørn.”

Varg suddenly remembered that the rest of Mayhem were ten minutes down the road. “Speaking of Jan and Jørn…” he said. He felt sorry to interrupt the heartfelt conversation. “They’re in Bergen now.”

“And Øystein?” the blonde asked. Worry was written all over his face.

“He’s here too. They’re leaving tomorrow, but… they’ll probably stop by here later today.”

The Swede looked a bit disappointed, which made Varg feel terrible. He offered him a bleak smile and, for some farfetched reason, held out his hand for Pelle to take. And for an even more implausible reason, Pelle accepted the hand, interlacing their fingers. Varg felt his heart hammering inside of his chest. He was quite sure that he was blushing, but if he was, Pelle didn’t mention it.

“Do you have any money?” Varg asked. His eyes were glued to their hands. Pelle was still warmer than he was.

“I have some…” the Swede answered. “I could stay at a motel.”

Varg shook his head. “You can stay here…” he whispered, but he knew it was close to madness. The blonde smiled at him. He seemed so different to the brunette, much more confident and easy-going than before.

“Not if there is a chance that he will visit you,” Pelle whispered back. The eighteen-year-old nodded in agreement. “I know,” he said and then heaved a sigh of annoyance. “I hate him so much,” he admitted to the frontman. The words came naturally, as if they were the best of friends. “I told Jørn and Jan about what he did to you… when he attacked you.”

The Swede shrugged at the revelation. “They deserve to know who they are spending time with. I was delusional when… when I asked you to keep it from them.” For a moment there, the two men merely stared at one another with gleaming eyes. It felt intimate in a way that was as comfortable as it was uncomfortable, but in the end, the reality of the moment caught up with the brunette.

“Yeah…” he said and stood up from the sofa, letting go of Pelle’s hand with a heavy heart. All of this was beginning to develop in a very peculiar direction, one that caused Varg to view of himself in a whole new light.

“Come on. I’ll drive you to a decent hotel,” he announced, but Pelle held up his hand. “No-no, I cannot afford something too decent. Not even something half-decent.”

“I’ll pay,” Varg said and gave him a lopsided grin. The Swede raised a brow in return. “That wouldn’t be right.”

The brunette rolled his eyes at the older man. “And where did you plan on staying?”

“Well, here,” he admitted and gave a small laugh that warmed Varg’s heart. “Then I don’t see the issue with me paying. Let’s leave before the guys wake up.”

 

* * *

 

Varg felt oddly content as he sunk back into his ever faithful armchair. He had accompanied Pelle for breakfast at the hotel. They had been tossed out of the dining area of the hotel after some time of loud conversations and whatnot. Pelle had started screaming the lyrics of some old Morbid song, much to Varg’s amusement, but the hotel staff had not taken it as lightly. They had told them straight out that they didn’t want any people of low morality staying at their hotel. Varg had managed to butter them up, being quite the enchanting fellow when he needed to be.

For the second time that day, there was a knock on the door. This one was quite firm and determined. Varg immediately knew that it was Euronymous, and he felt a bit hesitant to allow his entry, but there wasn’t a way around it.

Upon opening the door, Varg discovered that Øystein had come alone. The man entered the house without saying a word, a smug look on his face as he barged inside.

“Where are Jørn and Jan?” the younger man asked. This time he didn’t lock the door.

“Sleeping,” Øystein said and took his seat in Varg’s armchair. The younger man crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the guitarist. “And what do you think you’re doing here without them?”

“Don’t be such a baby,” he replied and fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“You’re not smoking inside my home, Øystein,” Varg said and walked over to the guitarist, forcing the cigarette and the lighter out of his hands. “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Øystein snarled and rose from the chair. “Give me those.”

“You will get them back if you leave,” Varg said and nodded in direction of the door. “I never asked you to come inside in the first place.” Øystein’s mouth twisted into an odd smile, a smile unlike anything he had seen before. It looked downright evil. “Get out,” Varg hissed, but the other man merely laughed at him. “Like I said, Kristian… you aren’t very scary… or dark.”

It took everything not to charge at him once more. Varg had to control himself, knowing that he couldn’t let someone like Euronymous pester and bully him. Pelle had been right about the man all along. He took joy from tormenting other people. While the genre had always been about darkness, death, abuse and violence, it had never been principles that he had adopted into his own personal philosophy, but Euronymous had. He had, in the end, become his own creation.

“You are weak,” Varg said, gritting his teeth. “You are unworthy of us, and I think you will find that, when you’re all alone in your dark and depressing little bubble, that this was not worth it. Terrorising the Swedes or the Finns… that is one thing. But Pelle?” the younger man shook his head. “That was taking things out of proportion.”

Øystein walked over to where Varg was standing. There was something sick and twisted in his eyes, something that foretold of sombre occurrences that were yet to come.

“What do you want?” the eighteen-year-old demanded, his eyes wide with fear. Øystein was only getting nearer and nearer. As a result of this unwanted proximity, Varg kept staggering backwards. In the end, he stood pressed up against the wall, Øystein only inches away from him. There was no way of escaping the gradually worsening situation. “… What- what do you-“

“Has it not been fairly obvious all the way, my precious Kristian?” Euronymous asked, licking his lips in an indelicate manner. “What I want… is you.” The smaller man pulled something out of his hip pocket then, and Varg, who had been backed up against the wall, was terrified when he found that it was a knife. It was a small pocketknife, but that meant little in the means of damage it could inflict upon him.

“You better follow me, Kristian… we’re going for a small ride.”


	3. Frostbitten Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing chapter (which might seem a bit odd...) and I really hope you enjoy it as well :) please leave a comment and tell me what you think!

It was noon. Varg and Øystein had been on the road for nearly half an hour. Øystein still hadn’t revealed his intentions. Even so, Varg realised that whatever the older man had in mind, it couldn’t possibly be good. He would probably remain truthful to his image, resulting in either murder or torturous abuse. Varg knew that whatever plans the guitarist had in mind, he would suffer a great deal. What struck him as odd was that his thoughts weren’t so deeply embedded in his own situation; his thoughts were with Pelle. While his mind had been hesitant to acknowledge what lay so deeply hidden in his heart, the situation at hand forced him to see things more clearly – more truthfully. It was a terrifying thing to feel.  

“See that road over there? That’s where we’re going.”

Varg made a left turn. They entered the dark woods and ended up on a gravel road that had been out of use for the last few decades. Øystein’s intention was clear as day: no one would disturb them there. 

“Stop the car, precious,” the guitarist whispered after another ten minutes. The pet name made the younger man shudder, too acquainted with Tolkien to possibly misunderstand. Seeing the location they had arrived at didn’t ease his worries. Euronymous had brought him to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. It was rundown – the paint peeling off the walls and most of the windows broken. For some dubious reason, the guitarist had the key, and he forced Varg to go inside, threatening him with a knife. It wasn’t the pocketknife anymore. This blade was familiar to him - it was one of Pelle’s knives.

“Sit down,” the older man commanded once they were inside. There was a twisted look on his face, one that witnessed of horrors to come. Varg couldn’t do anything but obey, cursing himself for not having brought any weapons with him inside. Just a pocketknife would have done the deed. “Good boy,” Øystein breathed as Varg took his seat on a very dirty and soiled sofa. It nearly gave in once both of them were seated.

“What the fuck do you want?” Varg whispered, feeling more trapped than ever before.

“Oh, you’ll see,” the guitarist whispered. He fished out two pairs of plastic handcuffs from his jacket and forced him to remove his boots. He proceeded with hesitation, but did what had been asked of him. One of the handcuffs was used on his feet, which meant that he couldn’t move from the sofa. He was in fact trapped.

“… Remove your shirt,” Øystein said, dragging the sharp blade across his ribcage, threatening him and taunting him. “Do it!” he demanded. “I’m not a very patient man today…”

When Varg didn’t respond to the preposterous and outrageous order, Euronymous pressed the knife against his flesh, drawing blood. A red stain appeared on his pale grey shirt. “… I’m not fucking with your head, Varg,” he whispered into his ear, so close that he could feel the heat from that disgusting mouth of his. And then his tongue pressed against his ear opening, licking it. Varg pulled back from the touch, finding the situation to be abhorrent.

“The shirt,” Øystein hissed, once again pushing the knife into him. Varg writhed in pain, feeling his eyes burning with tears of rage and humiliation. But there was no way around it. Perhaps, if he did what he was asked, he would be spared. With this in mind, he removed his shirt, tossing it aside.

Euronymous smiled a satisfied smile. “Good boy…” he breathed.

“Don’t…” Varg pleaded when Euronymous applied the handcuffs to his wrists. “Don’t be such a whiny bitch,” he hissed in response, pushing the younger one down onto the mattress. He was on his back, his pale torso completely exposed to the yearning eyes of his former friend. The handcuffs made him immobile and rendered him both vulnerable and helpless.  

“I have lusted so…” Øystein said, now sitting on top of Varg, straddling him. He could feel the warmth from the other man’s crotch against his lower body, causing him to whimper even more. Tears of fright were running freely down his face and neck. Euronymous leaned down and licked them from his cheeks, moaning when he reached Varg’s mouth. The blade pierced though his skin once more, causing him to let out a small cry of agony. It was enough for Øystein to invade his mouth – ravaging him.

That did it for Varg. He was seeing red, and without even thinking about it, he bit down on the older man’s tongue, resulting in a pained scream. “Get the fuck off me!” Varg yelled, driving his knee into the smaller man’s ribcage, causing the knife to fall from his hand and under the coffee table. “Release me, you sick bastard!”

“… You fucking bitch,” Euronymous hissed. His tongue was bleeding quite badly, and the blood was trickling from his chin and onto his tee-shirt. “I’m going to destroy you, Kristian,” he whispered, pressing his hand against Varg’s cheek in a forceful manner.

“Get these fucking handcuffs off me!” the younger one spat back with fire in his eyes.

Øystein merely chuckled at the angry demand and reached down to retrieve Pelle’s knife from underneath the low coffee table. “Your blood will be spilled… I shall bathe in it – drink it! I thirst for your innocence…” 

Varg felt a huge rush of adrenaline. Everything went black again – on auto command. Without realising what he was even doing, he forced his arms free from the handcuffs, scraping off skin in the process. Blood was trickling down his now free wrists and he turned his attention towards Øystein who was staring at him in shock. It was as if he was witnessing the rise of the devil himself, for so penetrating was the anger in Varg’s frostbitten eyes.

“V-Varg,” he pleaded, his eyes glued to the furious man in front of him. Before neither of them could speak, Varg’s fingers were tightly wrapped around Øystein’s neck. There were no thoughts running through his mind at that point, only a pure instinct of survival, and in order to survive, Øystein had to die.

Several muffled sounds escaped the smaller man’s lips, but Varg would not allow for him to speak. Too many septic words had slipped through those lips already. He squeezed harder and harder. Øystein’s eyes were wide open as they stared into Varg’s, undoubtedly begging for mercy, but such a thing did not exist anymore. Varg held no mercy for the man. He kept squeezing until the body became limp in his hands, nothing but a ragdoll, and he smiled at the result of their struggle. But then, without any reasonable explanation other than the adrenaline leaving his system, Varg realised what he was doing. He realised what he might have done.

“… Øystein,” he breathed as he let go of the body, but it was too late. The body had gone limp and lay motionless on the sofa. His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, as if in a never-ending sigh. Blood was trickling down his throat from where Varg’s nails had dug into his flesh. The sight was gruesome.   

The teenager stared at the body for a long time. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths due to the adrenaline and the exertion. But as he stared at Øystein, he felt something else, something that resembled panic and remorse.

 

* * *

 

When Jan and Jørn had woken up that morning, Øystein had been missing from the hotel. The two musicians had immediately started worrying about Varg, knowing that the guitarist had been targeting him for some time. Since Øystein had taken the only car, they had walked all the way to Varg’s house, only to find that no one was home. When they realised that their car stood in the driveway and not Varg’s, they were starting the get really worried, realising that something less than pleasant must have occurred.

They stood outside the house, pondering what to do and how to proceed. Just as they were about to take the car and drive down to the police station, in spite of their reticence about the police, Varg’s car came into view. His driving seemed a bit off. He was unsteady on the road and was driving way too fast, which was of course dangerous on icy roads. It was uncharacteristic for him to be reckless in any way, which led them both to the conclusion that a clash between mortal enemies had taken place.    

“What the fuck…” Jan thought out loud, receiving a look of concern from the bassist.

When the car finally came to a halt in the driveway, Varg more or less fell out the door and staggered towards the two men. They stared at him in wide-eyed surprise. As he came closer, they could see that there were large stains of blood on his tee-shirt, most likely his own due to the sheer amount, and there was blood running down the corners of his mouth.

“Varg!” Jørn said as soon as he was out of his daze. He ran towards the poorly dressed teenager, wrapping him in his arms. “… Øystein,” Varg whispered into Jørn’s chest. He sounded more like a forlorn child than the Varg he had spoken to about guns three days before. “I-I may… I may have killed him. I think I did.”

 

* * *

 

Varg hadn’t known what to do. At first he had thought about dumping the body, but he realised what such an action would look like. If found out, they would sentence him with twenty-one years in prison for wilful murder. That was not something he wanted to gamble with. But still being in shock, Varg couldn’t think clearly, and all he knew was that he needed Jørn. He always knew what to do.

Jørn sat next to him in the backseat of their car. He was his moral support in what would happen next. They were going to the police station to report the incident, which meant that Varg had to tell the full story. He was understandably nervous about this. Had they been in the US, they would have celebrated his action as self-defence and not that of murder. Norway had never approved of people taking the law into their own hands. Such actions would often be followed by imprisonment.   

Jørn accompanied Varg as they walked into the station, the teenager still trembling with emotions and the knowledge that he had in fact murdered a person. Even if he was of the honest opinion that Øystein hadn’t deserved any better, he didn’t at all enjoy having his blood on his hands. That had never been his intention.

“We’re here to report a murder,” Jørn told one of the police officers. The man, maybe in his late forties, simply stared at the two of them, scrutinising them. The long hair and leather jackets could only mean one thing, and he took it very seriously. He saw these people, more often criminals than not, come and go. But there had been another man at the station only ten minutes before, a man with the same long hair and the same worn leather jacket. He had been found wandering the roads and they had taken him in for questioning, but he had refused to talk and they had taken him to the local hospital for a mental evaluation.

“Before you say anything,” the police officer said, giving them another long look. “I need to get something in my office. Please, sit down.”

The man vanished and remained vanished for maybe ten minutes. When he came back, he waved a hand at them, signalling for them to follow him. They followed him down a hallway and into a small room that didn’t have any windows, only a nostalgic poster that depicted some fjord.

“Sit,” he said and pointed to the chairs in front of the wooden desk.   

The police officer poured them some coffee before he sat himself down on the opposite side of the desk. He hadn’t actually introduced himself, but there was a nametag on his shirt that said Johannes Evenrud. They felt slightly intimidated by him, knowing that he most likely didn’t care for ‘rockers’.  

“Like I said,” he began and took a sip out of his own coffee mug. “Before we begin, I would like to ask you fellows a question. This supposed murder… who committed it?”

“… I did,” Varg said, looking at the man with a frown on his face. He felt confused.

“Hmm,” the man said and folded his arms across his chest. “And your name is?”

“Kristian Larsson Vikernes,” he said and stared down at his hands. His heart was beating rapidly and he wasn’t feeling very well. He wished more than anything that he could be back at the hotel with Pelle. When he looked back up at the police officer, he could see him smiling. He seemed like he found the situation amusing in some way.

“And the person you believe you killed… that was Øystein Aarseth?”

“… Yes?”

The police officer shook his head. “Don’t worry… your enemy is very much alive, though… I can’t say that he is alive and well.” A line appeared between Varg’s eyebrows. “What?” His confusion made the older man heave a sigh of something akin to annoyance.

“One of my colleagues picked him up maybe two hours ago… he was wandering the roads and didn’t seem to be quite right in the head, to tell you the truth. He was scaring people. We even received a call about him later on… apparently he had terrorised some kids,” he informed them and then rolled his eyes. “We sent him to the hospital after attempting to have a decent conversation with him, which was impossible.”

Jørn and Varg looked at one another. Both of them were relieved.

“Even so,” the police officer continued, giving both of them a hard look of disapproval. “I know your kind, dealing with drugs and whatnot… I know that something happened, something that led you to believe that you’re a murderer. So, something has to happen here.” His gaze shifted from Varg to Jørn. “Are you directly involved in this situation?”

“Look,” Jørn said, sensing that Varg was out of his comfort zone. “This situation is complicated… a lot of people are involved, most of them members of our band… and you’ll have to question all of us to make things fair. My friend here, he’s only eighteen. He was abducted by Øystein earlier today. The guy even stabbed him with a knife,” he informed the police officer and pointed to Varg’s blood-soaked shirt. 

There was a moment of silence. “You’re not bikers?” he asked, causing Varg to snort. “We’re musicians. And I haven’t even smoked hashish before.”

The police officer nodded. “I’ll have to question you, Kristian. And you, what’s your name?”

“Jørn Stubberud.”

“I’ll need you to write me a list of all the people involved, Jørn. You can do that while I question your friend.”


	4. Enter the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I've been a little bit lazy with the updates again :p we all needed something sweet after the last chapter... enjoy ;) 
> 
> Comments are appreciated!

In the course of the day, the police had done some surprisingly thorough work. They had taken in Jan and Pelle, who had both been asked to make statements and, if possible, provide the investigation with evidence. Varg’s testimony weighed heavily due to the fact that he had a clean record and even more so because Øystein refused to talk to the police at all. And when the police had gone to the crime scene, they had found evidence that supported Varg’s story. All the other statements and evidence that had come to the surface were also to Varg’s advantage, seeing most of them witnessed about a very unstable Øystein Aarseth. Øystein, in addition to his reputation, didn’t have a clean record. In the end, he was the one charged with attempted sexual abuse and attempted murder. The latter one was on the grounds of evidence they had found at the crime scene.

“I’m so glad they came to their senses,” Jørn sighed. He was behind the steering wheel with Jan installed in the seat next to him. Varg was seated next to Pelle, his head leaning ever so slightly against the Swede’s shoulder.

“There’s one thing I‘ve been meaning to ask,” Jan said and turned to look at the two men in the backseat. “What are you doing in Bergen?” The Swede gave him a long look, as if it was the most stupide thing he had ever heard someone ask. “I invited myself to stay with Varg for a while.”

Jan shrugged at the diffuse answer he had received. “Well, there’s no way I’m going home tomorrow. I can’t cope with six hours in a car after this shit.”

“I really am sorry about… well, all of this,” Varg said, his words slightly muffled. He enjoyed being so close to the Swede, smelling the leather and the scent of something else, something that was purely Pelle. “I never meant for…” He closed his eyes before he could finish the sentence, not wanting to think about what had happened to him in the woods, or what had nearly happened.

“Don’t you dare to apologise,” Jørn said. He was looking at him from the rear-view mirror. “We all knew that fucker wasn’t right in the head… I just hope he gets some help,” Jan added, but the comment earned him something of a sad look from the bassist. He and Øystein had been friends forever, it seemed, and all of this was so farfetched. It was hard to explain what had happened to turn the boy he had once known into a seemingly bloodthirsty monster. Varg too had this feeling deeply embedded in his stomach.

“Where to?” Jørn asked after a few minutes of silent reflection. “The hotel,” Varg whispered. He didn’t want to go back to the cold house. In addition, the room had already been paid for and it would’ve been stupid not to use it.

* * *

 

As he towelled off from a refreshing shower, Varg thought about all he had endured that day, about the pain and the fear he had felt. He thought about how he had attempted to squeeze the life out of another human. It already seemed as if it had happened in a different century, to a different person even. The memories felt so vague, probably a result of the shock and the adrenaline. It had been like watching a movie.

When he gazed into the mirror, meeting his own tired eyes, he felt as if he had changed. His slender body was now marked by dark bruises and wounds inflicted by Øystein’s blade, or rather the knife he had stolen from Pelle. The thought made him flinch. He decided that he wouldn’t tell Pelle about that, and he hoped the police were sensible enough not to mention it to the Swede.  

“Hey,” Varg said as he entered the bedroom of the suite. The towel hung low on his hips and his still wet hair was clinging to his neck and shoulders.

“… Varg,” the Swede greeted him. His eyes were glued to some strange comic regarding zombies and vampires, which seemed like a peculiar mixture, but then again, Pelle was Pelle.

“Do you have a tee-shirt I can borrow?”

When the Swede finally glanced up from the comic, he felt that strange sensation in his stomach once more, the one he had gotten from Varg a couple of months earlier. His eyes weren’t focused on the revealed torso or the towel that threatened to slip off. What he focused on was the way the brunette was looking at him with those dark blue eyes. They carried so much in their depths, it was enthralling.

“Pelle?” Varg said after some time. When the blonde realised he had been staring, his cheeks went red, causing the teenager to smile. “I need some clean clothes…”

“Oh, yeah,” Pelle said and was quick to roll off the bed and crawl over to where he had left his bag. “Is this one decent enough?”

It was an old Morbid tee-shirt that had undoubtedly accompanied the Swede for many years. “It will do just fine,” Varg replied and put the shirt on. It fit him perfectly, meaning it was probably slightly too large for Pelle, even if he had gained some weight since January.

“Do you need underwear too?” Pelle asked. He was holding up a black pair of underpants. “I haven’t worn them yet, if you should be ill at ease.”

“That would probably be clever,” Varg said, accepting the offered piece of clothing. “And just for the record… I wouldn’t have minded either way.” Pelle shrugged at the answer, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. As Varg pulled on the underpants, Pelle slid back under the sheets and kept reading the comic. When Varg sat down on the bed next to the Swede, he simply smiled into the comic, pretending that he hadn’t noticed.

Varg couldn’t tear his gaze from Pelle. As he looked at him, engrossed in whatever it was he was reading, Varg felt a deep-rooted fondness in his heart. It swelled when the blonde shifted his attention from the comic and to the brunette, his pale blue eyes so honest and beautiful. He truly had to constrain himself not to touch those angelic locks of hair.

“… The way you’re looking at me,” Pelle said and his face was once again turning red with emotion. “Is very intense.”

The brunette couldn’t hold back anymore. Without answering to the comment, he took the comic away from the Swede and put it on top of the night table. “What…”

When Varg leaned closer, the Swede wasn’t sure what to expect. But then the brunette threaded a hand through Pelle’s blonde mane, caressing it gently, almost afraid that Pelle would shatter. And then their eyes met for a tender moment, Pelle’s big blue ones against Varg’s frosty ones. Both of them knew what it meant.

“Can I…” Varg stopped and his jaw flexed. “Can I kiss you?”

Pelle didn’t answer – he didn’t have time to answer. Varg’s hand was already on his cheek, bringing his face closer to his own to the point where their lips were almost touching. “Pelle,” he breathed and they were close enough for the blonde to feel the word – his name against his face. Their foreheads were touching now. “Varg,” he whispered back and then pressed his mouth against Varg’s, softly but firmly. They were both smiling against each other’s lips, neither one of them fighting for dominance. It wasn’t a kiss of passion to the extent that it was a kiss of confirmation and of fondness and awe.

Varg was the first one to pull back. He stared at the blonde for a long moment, the smile still touching his lips, clinging to his face.

“Right now should be forever,” Pelle sighed before moving to turn the lights off. When he was back under the sheets again, Varg wrapped him in his arms. He felt as if the pieces of the puzzle had finally come together. “Right now is for ever,” he whispered into the blonde’s ear, feeling him shudder pleasantly against his body.

The brunette drifted off to sleep after a couple of minutes. His light snores were the most reassuring sound in the world to the Swede, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so fulfilled. When they had kissed, it had felt as if something had melted inside of him. It had hurt in a wondrous way. Every piece of him, all his longings, all his dreams and sweet wretchedness, all of it had been altered and transformed. And Pelle felt as if something that had been buried and forgotten in the dark depths of his soul had come awake.

Sleep came to him then, with a satisfied smile on his lips, and all else had been forgotten, or at least all that wasn’t them.  


	5. The Spawn of the Underground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have neglected this story for some time now :o summer has been busy so far! The next chapter will be out soon ^.^
> 
> Comments are very appreciated :)

They were on the sofa with mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of them, watching the fire in the fireplace, or at least Pelle was. Varg sat with his head cradled in Pelle’s lap and admired the perfect features of his beloved. The Swede’s hand was absentmindedly stroking the younger man’s hair. He had lost himself in his thoughts yet again, thoughts that were either beautiful or grotesque. It was hard to tell.

“Are you good?” the brunette asked after a few minutes. When their eyes met, the blonde couldn’t contain himself and grinned, flashing his pearly whites. “As long as you are here with me,” he answered and brought Varg’s hand to his lips, kissing it in a gentle manner. It made the younger man blush, feeling completely and utterly ridiculous. In spite of this, Varg couldn’t keep himself from smiling in return. His worries were long forgotten.

“Jørn and Jan are going back to Oslo tomorrow,” Pelle said and took a sip out of his mug. “They will be searching for another guitarist.”

“Jørn asked me,” Varg said. There was something quite similar to malice in his voice. “Just imagine Øystein’s face upon finding out.”

“I do not suppose that he would have been overjoyed, no…” the Swede said and then burst out laughing, giggling like a small child. “But even after all that has occurred… I pity him. He has lost all sense of right and wrong.” Varg had to nod his head in agreement. “I know… when I met him a few years ago, he was a completely different person. He was the mastermind behind the entire underground scene… I just hope he gets the help he needs. I mean, they will probably diagnose him with _something_.”

Pelle didn’t respond to this. His features were clouded by a peculiar mixture of sadness and recognition, barely enough for Varg to realise his mistake. The Swede had been admitted to a mental hospital not too long ago. As this realisation dawned on him, he cursed himself inwardly, wondering how he could possibly have said something so stupid.

“I hope they will visit us before leaving,” the blonde said after a few minutes of awkward silence. “It saddens me quite a bit. They are family, in a way.” 

Varg sat up in the sofa again, taking a sip out of his own now lukewarm hot chocolate. “Aren’t you going with them?”

“Back to Ski?” Pelle asked and scrunched up his face. “There is no way I’m ever setting foot in that house again.”

“So you’re done… with the band?”

Pelle shrugged in response. If he were to be honest, he hadn’t given it much thought. But he knew that if there was even a slight possibility that Øystein would return to the band, or if he would even be released, he didn’t want to be part of it anymore. While in Sweden, he had spent some time with the members of his old band, Morbid. They had asked him to return to the band. It had seemed like an enticing idea, but now that he sat next to Varg on the sofa, he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

“I want to be me right now,” he sighed and rested his head against Varg’s shoulder. “I have _been_ Mayhem for so long, I forgot about everything else… I’m not Dead.”

There was a longing in his voice that did not agree with the words he had just uttered, but Varg chose not to comment on it. While he knew that Pelle, if he wasn’t involved in some kind of artsy project, would eventually become restless, he also agreed with what he had said. To him, Pelle was far more important than Dead, but Dead was an important part of Pelle. They needed to find a way of controlling Dead’s little inclination towards self-mutilation so that Pelle could merge the two together in a somewhat peaceful mixture. 

“… Hey,” Varg whispered, sensing that the older man was feeling down. “Come here.”

Pelle allowed for Varg to embrace him warmly, and he buried his face in his hair, breathing him in. “… I want to stay with you,” the Swede whispered. “Please… don’t make me leave.”

Varg frowned at the request. It was quite farfetched. “Of course I won’t,” he said and held the troubled blonde even closer, cradling him in his arms. “I don’t want you to leave either… I need you here.” The statement must have struck a nerve of some kind. The blonde was weeping silently, his body trembling against Varg’s chest. He soon relaxed though, for the gentle strokes of Varg’s hand along his back soothed him, removing all the bad thoughts that had flickered through his mind.

“Pelle…” the brunette said after some time, his arms untangling from the other man’s slender body. “Are you fine?”

The blonde stared back at him, his eyes red from the tears he had shed. He looked as if he was overwhelmed, or as if he had been startled by something.

“I need to call my parents…” he whispered. It was the last thing Varg had expected for him to say. “They must be worried… I never told them farewell.” The eighteen-year-old frowned. “You didn’t tell them? Of course they’re worried. Call them now!”

 

* * *

 

The Swedish police had been searching for Pelle for nearly three days. Due to his unfortunate history of self-inflicted violence, depression and suicide attempts, they had searched the woods, the rivers and the lakes. It was perhaps the most natural conclusion, but Pelle had been somewhat hurt that his family hadn’t believed in his recovery. Varg saw things differently. But then again, Pelle often viewed things in a whole different light. He thought that because he had claimed to be all good again, his family had to be completely convinced of his self-proclaimed recovery.

“They told me to return to Stockholm, but I absolutely refused…” Pelle explained and then rolled his eyes. He hadn’t enjoyed the treatment. His psychologist had misunderstood him in most ways, believing his fascination with death to be self-inflicted in relation to the self-mutilation. The assumption had been wrong, and foolishly so, especially when he had refused to believe that it could have been caused by his near-death experience.

“My mum probably would’ve wanted me close if I had been put through something similar.”

Pelle raised a brow. “And you think that you haven’t been exposed to something eerily similar?”

Varg was about to answer when interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the front door. He immediately knew who it was, and he realised that he had committed a huge misdeed. Pelle frowned as he noticed that the colour was draining out of Varg’s face. “Who’s that?” he asked, a bit worried that some of their enemies should be after them. But as soon as the question had fallen from his lips, he could hear the door being unlocked, and in came a thin and quite elegant lady. There was a wild look on her face.

“Kristian!” she said and then hurried over to the eighteen-year-old, wrapping him into her arms. Before any of them could say something, the woman started sobbing into his shirt, and Varg was simply stroking his hand down her back, a look of horror on his face.

“… It’s okay, mum… I’m completely fine-”

“No-no, of course you aren’t! Why didn’t you contact me at once?” she demanded, her arms still wrapped around his torso. “Do you know who called me? Øystein’s father! He called me to apologise on Øystein’s behalf… and…” Tears were streaming down her face at this point, her lower lip quavering dangerously. “How can you ever be fine again? How did I not see this coming… that boy was never quite right in the head, and I simply brushed it off as nothing…”

“I… I should leave,” Pelle muttered from the corner he had withdrawn to. But just then, and completely out of the blue, the door swung open. Jørn and Jan were suddenly standing in Varg’s living room.

“… Um,” was all the drummer said, obviously not having intended to barge in on such an emotional moment. Jørn, who had actually met Helene once before, could only smile. Varg looked both embarrassed and uncomfortable, and his mother, who had been crying hopelessly, dried her tears and attempted to pull herself together.

“Oh, Jørn,” she said and smiled one of those overly motherly smiles. “I’m so terribly sorry. This has all been a bit too much for me.”

“I can totally relate to that,” the bassist replied and went to sit down next to her on the sofa. “But you’ve raised him well. He’s coping with it, and that’s the important thing.”

Helene nodded in agreement, the smile still attached to her lips. “He’s mentally strong. He gets that from me.”

Varg rolled his eyes at the statement and threw a glance in Pelle’s direction, sensing that he was not at ease with the situation. The man stood backed up against the wall in complete silence, his eyes glued to the window, probably yearning for the outside world. Varg hadn’t wanted to introduce him to his mother so soon, for obvious reasons, but Øystein’s father had completely spoiled his plans.

“Mum,” he interrupted, earning him a stern look from his mother. “This is… um, this is Pelle.”

She turned to look at the man whose back was still pressed up against the wall. The sight that met her eyes was a twenty-two year old man with a lank, angular appearance. What softened his features was the mane of unruly, blonde hair that flowed down his back. Had it not been for the reserved attitude, he would have been quite stunning.

“Hello,” she said and held out her hand for him to shake, but he only stared at the hand, a bewildered look plastered on his face. “… Hi.”

“He’s a bit shy,” Jørn was quick to add. Helene frowned at the peculiar behaviour, but then again, she had met too many of Varg’s friends to feel the least bit startled. “I’m Varg’s mother,” she said and smiled tenderly at the blonde. “He has actually told me quite a few things about you-“

“Mum,” Varg interfered. “Maybe you and I can talk later this evening? The guys are going back to Ski very soon and I’d like to talk to them first.”

Helene looked like she wanted to protest for a moment there, but the look of determination on her son’s face told her that it wouldn’t have been a bright idea. She pulled him in for another hug instead, feeling a rush of relief wash over her again, knowing her son was safe. And if anything was important to Helene, it was the safety of her only son.


	6. Damnation of the (S)aints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, I have moved to the other side of the country and had no internet for a long time :o 
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are appreciated :)

The brunette looked somewhat forlorn. His hand was still resting on top of the receiver, his mouth set in a firm line that emphasised the gravity of the moment. Pelle looked at him, silently prompting him to say something, to inform him of what the conversation had been about. He could already tell that it had something to do with Øystein and the incident they wanted to forget had ever taken place.

“That was…” Varg faltered. There was a look of uncertainty on his face; as if he didn’t know what to make of the information he had been given. “That was my lawyer. Øystein has been ruled criminally insane.”

Pelle nodded. He had seen it coming, they both had, but now that they had gotten it on the table, it struck them both as an unfair decision. It meant that he couldn’t get a sentence, and it meant that they would lock him up and force pills down his throat. When he was deemed mentally sane again, they would release him and he would be free to live his life as he wished. He would be free to seek them out again.

“Are you frightened?” the vocalist asked and ran a tentative hand through the brunette’s hair. When their eyes locked, Varg allowed for a beautiful smile to overtake his face, and he shook his head dismissively. “No. I’m quite happy, to be honest. He’ll be locked away for a long time, even if he isn’t in jail. And maybe they can cure him.”

While the Swede was not inclined to believe that Øystein was capable of ever returning to his old self again, he couldn’t do anything but nod in agreement, glad to see that the teenager was starting to relax again. “Yes. I hope they can. I quite miss the ‘old’ Euronymous.”

“You were close for some time, weren’t you?”

“I guess…” Pelle admitted, but there was a compromising tone to his voice. “He was drawn to my darkness… he especially admired my extreme stage performances.” He paused himself for a while, his eyes glued to the floor. “I remember last year… in Jessheim… I cut myself with a Cola bottle.”

“… You what?”

Pelle rolled up his sleeve and revealed an ugly scar that covered most of his forearm. “He thought it was amazing that I refused to get stitches,” he said and then, for some unintelligible reason, flashed Varg a lopsided grin. “Actually… I hit one of the main arteries, and… the blood, it was like a fountain of blood. It rained down on the audience. Half of them just ran out the door! Øystein thought it was cool because then we could differentiate between those who were ‘pure’ and those who were posers.”

Pelle’s story was rewarded by Varg’s heartfelt laughter. It was an agreeable sound to the blonde’s ears.

“We also had pig heads impaled on stakes. This one guy, I think he was Eastern European, took a bite out of one of the heads… he got a pretty severe food poisoning and was sent to the hospital with explosive diarrhoea. So the hospital received one guy who had eaten half-rotten head meat, and then one guy in corpse paint who had sliced himself open with a Cola bottle! They were pretty horrified by the whole incident.”

The two men laughed until their ribs hurt, finding the story both amusing and grotesque, but this was usually the case in all things that concerned the Swede. Varg’s laughter eventually died down. It was transformed into a tender smile as he regarded the gorgeous being next to him, and he couldn’t help but blush at the thoughts that entered his mind. But what truly captivated him was the inner beauty, the beauty that Pelle wouldn’t allow for anyone else to see. His affections grew stronger for each passing day, and he realised that he couldn’t hold back anymore. He needed to make things right between them. 

Varg grabbed the blonde’s hand and wrapped it between both of his; soothing it with small, gentle strokes. Pelle, who had been laughing at his own story, became very quiet. He looked at Varg, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Pelle…” he whispered when the humorous story had been forgotten. The Swede held his breath, though he did so without intention. Varg had to smile. “We should talk about… this.”

“… This?”

 

* * *

 

“Yes… about this, or us…” he whispered softly.

The teenager ran his fingers across the scarred skin of Pelle’s forearm. The touch was light and tentative, not wanting to cause the singer any discomfort. Even so, Pelle froze momentarily, startled by the peculiar actions of the younger man. “W-why…”

It was beginning to dawn on the brunette’s mind that Pelle most probably hadn’t been romantically or sexually involved with anyone before. This was in itself not a strange or worrisome thing, but it forced him to stifle a smile of tenderness, not wanting to cause the blonde any further embarrassment.

“Have you ever been in a relationship?” he asked and gave the singer an honest and open look that spoke of his sincerity. “I mean, I don’t mean to pry-“

Varg felt Pelle’s hand clasp tightly around his fingers, the fingers that had been tracing the scar. “… No,” he whispered. His voice held a strained edge, sounding as if he wanted to avoid the topic. “I… I never have felt that way about someone. Being close to other people… even communicating with people… it has always been difficult.”

“Why?”

The swede heaved a sigh of annoyance. “What would I have in common with the general population? My sphere of interest is limited to very few topics, and…” He shook his head. “Even as I sit here with you, I am of the knowledge that our interests are far from the same. You are the only exception in my life… because you… you fascinate me. And for some odd reason, you understand. You don’t tolerate me, you understand me…”

Varg felt deeply touched by what Pelle had shared with him, and before the Swede could continue his little rant, Varg put his hand on his cheek and leaned in for a kiss – a kiss that was nothing but a sweet peck on the lips.

“I had a girlfriend half a year ago,” the whispered, their lips only inches apart. “She never made me feel like this though… because when I look into your eyes, Pelle… I know that you’re it. For me, there is no one else. There is only you… and as cheesy as this sounds, you’ve given my life new meaning.”

The brunette stared deeply into Pelle’s pale blue eyes, eyes that held so much hope and promise in them. His cheeks were blushing wildly and his lips were slightly parted. Varg felt himself go mad with lust. He leaned down, resting his forehead against Pelle’s. The Swede watched breathlessly as dark eyes studied him with silent intensity. He then shut his eyes in anticipation and stifled a surprised gasp as Varg’s soft lips captured his. A curling heat overtook his body, conquering him with its raw and passionate force. The cold ice in him began to melt away, and when they parted, he immediately missed feeling his lips against his own. They belonged there.

When Varg’s fingers ghosted over the hem of his sweater, his intentions were as clear as the day. Pelle did nothing to stop him from removing the piece of clothing, quite on the contrary, and soon both sweaters were abandoned on the floor.

“You are beautiful,” Varg whispered into yet another passionate kiss. Before the Swede had the time to respond, the brunette gently pushed him down into the sofa. “Let me…”

The teenager placed a trail of tender kisses down the older man’s throat. Pelle was shivering involuntarily from the unfamiliar sensation of being touched so intimately. Little moans of pleasure fell from his parted lips, and his hands found their way to Varg’s back, holding onto him as if his life depended on it.

“So perfect,” the brunette breathed before turning his attention to his pert nipples, circling one of them with his index finger. The slight touch caused the blonde to moan yet again, his eyes dark with want and need. His eagerness made the teenager smile, wanting to draw more sounds like that from his beloved. With this in mind, he pinched the hard little tips, earning him a surprised gasp. And then, without any warning whatsoever, he took a pink nipple between his lips, swirling his tongue around the puckered peak.

“Varg!” the blonde cried out, never having experienced something remotely similar before. His body had a way of its own now, and he was at the mercy of another person. His name on the other man’s lips had sent shivers down Varg’s spine. He once again captured Pelle’s lips with hungry urgency, feeding from the sweetness of his mouth. Pelle parted his beautifully swollen lips, allowing for the kiss to deepen. Varg’s tongue found his.

“Oh my God!” someone yelled from the hallway. Varg nearly fell from the sofa, and Pelle, who was shy under normal circumstances, was shielding himself behind a cushion.

“What the hell, mum!” he yelled in loud frustration. His mother stared at the two of them in wide-eyed surprise, and Varg doubted that she would have been much more surprised had she seen Jesus in the flesh. While the teenager was strongly opposed to Christianity, his mother was relatively religious, hence his Christian name. Her religious tendencies also meant that she was not supportive of homosexuality.

“… I forbid it,” she whispered, her eyes now glassy and red. “I absolutely forbid it.”

 

* * *

 

They were in his mother’s living room. On the coffee table in front of them was the fine china Helene had inherited from her grandmother. Varg sat with Pelle next to him on the sofa, both of them quiet and uncomfortable about the situation they were currently in. While Helene had come across as open-minded in the sense that she had allowed for her son to be a so-called ‘satanic’ musician, and that she had rented him a house of his own, she was not particularly fond of same-sex relationships. It showed.  

“Please, Pelle… help yourself,” she said and nodded in direction of the huge chocolate cake she had put on the table. Varg had taken a slice, but Pelle was hesitant. He was worried that eating something as rich as a chocolate cake would upset his stomach, which wouldn’t be flattering.

“No, I… I’m watching my weight,” he said and smiled an apologetic smile. The comment forced the brunette to stifle a laugh, but it was fairly obvious that he had found it amusing. Helene seemed to feel even more uncomfortable than they did, and she poured herself yet another cup of coffee, trying to distract herself from the fact that she had found her son in a compromising position with the blonde skeleton the day before. She assumed that the Swede suffered from an eating disorder, choosing not to feel offended.

“It was delicious though,” Varg said and gave her an encouraging look. “You’re a very capable cook.”

She smiled in return. It could have come across as sincere if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was grinding her teeth. Varg, who had become used to this bad habit of hers, didn’t at all notice it. The Swede felt even more awkward about the situation upon realising just how disagreeable their relationship was to her, straining her every nerve.

“So… Pelle,” Helene said and smiled even wider. “Are you planning on staying in Norway for long?”

“… I don’t have plans.”

“Ah, so you’re quite the adventurous type,” she said and cut herself another slice of cake. “I myself prefer to have everything planned and mapped out. It makes me feel safe, I suppose. But then again, I’m not as extreme as you young fellows.”

Pelle begged to differ, but he didn’t say anything, he merely smiled and hoped that it would be enough to please her. He desperately needed to get out of that apartment. 

“Well, we should probably get going,” Varg said as he studied his wristwatch. “Jon will be home any minute now. I’m guessing you don’t want him to see me and Pelle together?” His mother didn’t reply to the question, but she stared at him with a certain kind of despair in her eyes that made Pelle’s heart shatter. He knew what that look of pure disappointment meant. Even if they fought their parents and rebelled against them, it still hurt to be dismissed as failures.


	7. Perception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I have finally updated this story :) I am dreadfully sorry for the long wait, but I have been away from home for months :o I will be updating regularly from now on. Hope that you will forgive me :) I'll post twice today, as a Christmas present maybe. 
> 
> Comments are still very much appreciated :)

Varg opened the door carefully. He had barged in on the sleeping Swede the evening before and had made up his mind not to repeat the mistake. Pelle, who suffered from insomnia, needed all the sleep he could get. He deserved it.

When he peeked inside of the room, he was almost surprised at the scene that met his eyes. It was as if time stood still. The pale moonlight illuminated the room, creating a mysterious atmosphere, as if a spell had been cast over the blonde. He had fallen asleep with a book regarding occultism on his chest. It moved with the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he dreamed of his utopia, which was undoubtedly Transylvania and Dracula’s castle. Even so, the innocence showed on his sleeping face. Unruly locks of blonde hair wreathed his beautiful countenance. This and the blue shade created by night and moon made him seem otherworldly. Varg wanted to believe that he was, because Pelle was too grand for their world, and too grand for anything he could ever offer him. He was in fact unworthy of him.

Varg took one careful step into the room, but the floor creaked beneath him, and he resorted to tiptoeing very quietly across the floor to the bed. He removed the book from Pelle’s chest and put it on the night table, watching him with a tender smile on his lips.

When he had undressed, he slid into bed with his beloved, and he pulled the duvet over them both. He was still worried that Pelle was cold and spooned up against him, hooking his chin on the older man’s neck.

“… Hmm,” Pelle murmured as he stirred from his sleep. “Varg?”

The younger man sighed, feeling responsible for having awakened the Swede. He brushed his fingers through his hair, attempting to lull him back to sleep. “… I’m sorry,” he breathed against his ear, causing the blonde to shudder involuntarily. “I tried to be quiet.”

Pelle turned around to face the younger man. His eyes were big and questioning, as if he wanted to ask him something. “I… I’ve sent an application to an art school… in Sweden.”

“What?” Varg was frowning. “You… you want to leave?”

The Swede gave Varg a look of disappointment. “No! My dad… he applied in my name while I was… ill.”

There was a moment of silence. Varg lowered his eyebrows and squinted his eyes slightly, attempting to understand what was being said. “But you want to attend?” The blonde lowered his gaze and bit down on his lower lip. The younger man swore that he could see wetness in his eyes in the pale light of the moon.

“I can’t stay… can I?” he quavered. The sheer brokenness of his voice made Varg feel as if ill. The nausea swirled unrestrained in his empty stomach.

“Why can’t you stay?” he whispered back and cupped his face in his hands, their faces only inches apart. “I never would have made you leave… never.”

“… Varg,” his name fell from the Swede’s lips. It sounded more like a prayer than anything else, making the teenager feel somewhat scared. He wasn’t telling him everything, he was holding back, and Varg knew he had to coax it out of him. They couldn’t have secrets.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, love,” he said, placing a tender kiss on Pelle’s forehead.

The Swede closed his eyes, leaning against Varg. Tear drops started to flow down his cheeks. “But you will change your mind, will you not? Your mother cannot tolerate… she hated me. She hates you for… for whatever we are to each other. I don’t want to be in the way… I don’t…”

Varg sighed and sat up in bed, scooping the Swede into a hug as he sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder.

“I don’t care about what she thinks…” the brunette whispered. His hands began to make circles on his back, and Pelle was clinging onto him, shivering tremendously. Varg attempted to kiss the pain away, but the blonde only sobbed louder at the effort. “Hey…” Varg whispered, his hand on Pelle’s chin now, forcing their eyes to meet. “I love you. You’re a fool not to realise that.”

Varg captured Pelle’s mouth, absorbing his essence into his very cells. He sealed his announcement, and the moment was as brief as it was beautiful.

“And where you go… I go,” the brunette finally whispered. With these words of assurance, the Swede allowed for blissful sleep to reclaim him. Varg could only watch him in silent wonderment.

 

* * *

 

They woke up to a grim experience. They had heard a gunshot being fired, and then another. Varg had told Pelle to stay in bed and not to leave the room while he hasted downstairs with his shotgun. He was too late. Someone had shot at the house and one of the windows had been hit, resulting in plentiful of glass fragments scattered all over the kitchen. When he went to open the main door, he found a dead cat with its guts slashed open in the otherwise empty flowerpot. On the door itself they had written profanities, cursing both him and Pelle. It was signed with ‘The Inner Circle’.

When Varg went back upstairs, he realised that he had congealed blood on his arms and torso. A line appeared between his eyebrows, believing for a slight moment that he had injured himself. When he couldn’t find a scar, realisation dawned on him. He silently cursed the Swede for his recklessness with the blade. 

“What did you do last night?” he demanded the second he entered the bedroom. Pelle flinched at the harshness in his voice and attempted to pull the duvet over his head. In the sunlight, Varg could see that there was quite a lot of blood on the sheets. The thought of having slept in Pelle’s blood made him feel sick to his stomach.

“Talk to me…” he whispered, his voice now more fearful than anything else. “Pelle!”

Varg pulled the sheets away, revealing the pale and thin body underneath. He sat down on the bed and took a hold of his wrists, studying the fresh wounds on his arms. The cuts were shallow and they wouldn’t require any stitches. “Why?” he breathed and felt tears stinging in his own eyes. “Are you getting ill again?”

Pelle shook his head, his eyes wide open. “No! No… I was… yesterday did me no favours. I completely forgot about it.”

“That isn’t a valid explanation,” Varg sighed before pulling the older man in for a hug. “We have to make this stop somehow. It tears my heart out…”

“I know,” the blonde whispered back. His voice was hoarse from all the crying. “What happened downstairs?”

The brunette had to close his eyes. “Some of Øystein’s adherents are after us,” he explained, knowing that the news would unsettle the blonde even further. He was right.

“What?” he asked and then drew in a sharp breath, as if he had to brace himself. “We cannot stay here.”

Varg realised that this was indeed the truth. He knew what Euronymous was capable of on his own, but these people were brainwashed to believe that he was some kind of a dark Messiah. They would do anything and everything for him, and if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that Øystein hated the two of them with a passion. They were in danger.

“I have to make a call…”

 

* * *

 

The brunette felt reluctant to leave his home behind. It wasn’t so much about the house itself as it was about having to abandon Bergen, the only home he had ever known and was faithful to. But he was more faithful to himself and his beloved, and he realised that at least a part of the reason why Pelle had chosen the razor again was that he was stressed out. He was stressed out about his mother and her homophobia, and he was stressed out about Øystein and his so-called ‘Inner Circle’. They were a group of teenagers who Øystein couldn’t have cared less about, who believed themselves to be worthy. It was a strange sheep mentality.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his hand resting on top of Pelle’s. They were in the car outside of the house, watching the dark windows with sadness in their eyes. The Swede heaved a sigh of frustration. “I suppose.”

Varg squeezed the older man’s hand reassuringly, offering him a tiny smile, though it wasn’t a particularly happy smile. “We’ll be fine. As long as we have each other, anywhere could be home. We aren’t chained or confined to these four walls.”

“I know…” Pelle whispered back, his facial expression completely blank, but he was unable to hide the emotions that whirled in his eyes. “But you just told me Jørn has a baby now. I feel like we’re… well, intruding.”

“We’ll find our own place in no time,” Varg said and then paused for a peculiar moment, a tiny smile toying on his lips. “I wonder how you are with children.” Pelle almost shuddered at the comment. “Tiny little devils,” he huffed and withdrew his hand. “Can we please leave?”

 

* * *

 

If Pelle were to be honest, the child was far from being a tiny little devil, but he wouldn’t admit that out loud. He couldn’t admit that he thought she was the cutest thing he had ever seen before, and he wouldn’t admit that he was terrified of touching or holding her. He thought she would break in his hands.

“Come on, Pelle,” Jørn encouraged him. “She won’t bite. Doesn’t even have her teeth yet.”

Her bright blue eyes were curious. She stared at Pelle with something similar to amusement, or at least that was how Pelle deciphered her expression. He sat down next to her on the soft blanket, watching her as she watched him. It was a staring contest of sorts.

“You are strange,” he whispered and offered her a rather shy smile. His blonde hair flowed over his shoulders and onto the blanket, and the baby gripped a fistful of hair, offering him a smile. “… And you like my hair.”

“Admit it,” Jørn smiled. “She’s a fascinating little creature.”

Varg had to laugh at the scene. His angelic boyfriend looked even more angelic with a baby pulling at his hair.

“Don’t laugh,” Pelle reprimanded him, but his heart wasn’t in it. His eyes were glued to Luna. “Varg shouldn’t be laughing at us, should he?” he whispered in a sing-song voice. The baby cooed with delight, earning a wide smile from Pelle. He was head over heels about the child. Varg could only stare at the two of them, shaking his head in silent wonderment. He had not at all expected this from someone who went by the stage name “Dead”, but then again, Pelle had many gifts and talents.


	8. The Future Versus the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised ;)

Varg woke up around nine a.m. to the sun winking through the window of the guest room. He blinked tiredly, wondering why the curtains had been drawn back. It then dawned on him that they had never been closed in the first place.

“Good morning,” Pelle whispered from the other side of the bed. Their backs were touching, though only slightly, and Varg rolled over and pulled the older man into a warm embrace, nearly clinging onto him. “Hey,” he whispered back and buried his face in Pelle’s mane of blonde locks, breathing him in. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” he assured the brunette. “I had this odd dream… we were in Sweden, with my parents…” he stopped himself midsentence. “Uh, forget about it.”

Varg frowned and pulled back a little so that their eyes met. “But now you’ve made me even more curious,” he pouted, but it was quickly replaced by a mischievous smile. The teasing caused the blonde to turn red, and before Varg knew it, he had withdrawn from the embrace.

“Hey…” he murmured quietly. Pelle felt Varg's hand rest onto his face as he caressed his cheek gently with his thumb. “You can always tell me everything that’s on your mind, love. I love you no matter what.”

“… You too.”

Varg sat up in the bed and yawned and stretched. His torso was bare and his hair, usually in a bun or braided when he slept, was unrestrained and flowed down his back. The blonde reached out his hand, wrapping an unruly lock of hair around his finger. It was unusual for him to display his feelings like that, even if they were devoted to each other. Varg offered him a lopsided grin, wrapping the Swede’s hand in his own. “Tell me,” he whispered, a humoured tone to his voice, causing the blonde to sigh.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I dreamt that… I dreamt that we got married.”

For a couple of seconds, Varg simply stared at Pelle, his eyes a bit wider than usual. And then, without any warning, he burst out into full-blown laughter.

“… I don’t like you anymore,” Pelle declared, crossing his arms over his chest in a childish manner that caused the brunette to laugh even harder.

“Did- did you wear a wedding gown?” he asked and dried away a lonely tear that had sprung free.

“Ha-ha, very funny…”

“Hey, come on, it’s funny,” Varg said and gently nudged his elbow into Pelle’s upper arm. “Don’t take yourself so seriously.”

“… Well, just for the record… you wore the dress.”

Varg smiled tenderly at the gruff comment. “I bet you’d look a lot better in it though…”

The Swede sent him a look of pure hatred. There wasn’t any trace of humour in his eyes, which forced the eighteen-year-old to cease his laughter. He knew Pelle was a quite emotional being who could get easily hurt, even if his intentions weren’t ill. There was a look of disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” he said and pressed a kiss against the singer’s temple. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Pelle gave him a long look, one that said that he wasn’t pleased. The younger man was about to apologise once more, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Breakfast’s ready, boys.”

 

* * *

 

They were outside. It was early spring and the frozen world around them was beginning to awake from its dark slumber. The wind wasn’t as cutting as it had been only days before. Pelle had insisted that they should go for a walk, having been inside for so long, and of course he had already mapped out the nearest graveyard. While Varg was fond of occult themes, he didn’t care much for graveyards. To him, they weren’t grim or frightening, but they were Christian.

“We could have gone for a long walk in the woods,” he said and rolled his eyes at the Swede. “But no… a graveyard is way more appealing.”

Pelle gazed at his beloved through the corner of his eye, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. He knew that if someone mentioned anything that could in any way be related to Christianity, Varg would be close to enraged. The brunette was fond of Old Norse and Vikings. He thought that it was a part of their culture that should be kept alive rather than the feigned devotion to one God, one of three religions that had its roots deeply embedded in the never-ending deserts of the Middle East.

“I think it is appealing. Personally, I have more in common with the dead than the living.”

“… Maybe if we take a stroll in the woods, we can find you a new deceased animal. To inhale.”

Pelle had to smile at the comment. “Maybe later. I need to feel the energy of decaying human flesh first.” As soon as these words had been said, Pelle simply sat down on the frozen ground and leaned his head against a gravestone, murmuring incoherent words and sounds. Varg had seen this bizarre behaviour a few times before. It usually meant that he was getting in touch with death. He found it to be more amusing than anything else, knowing that Pelle truly believed in these spiritual things.

“Can we please leave?” Varg sighed after a couple of minutes. The question earned him a look of annoyance from the blonde, but it wasn’t sincere. “Fine,” he groaned in reply and held his hand out. Varg pulled him to his feet and then into a tight embrace, lifting his feet off the ground and twirled him around. The frontman, a bit taken aback by the strange action, squealed like a little girl.

“Put me down!” he demanded, a flush creeping up his face. Varg complied with a huge grin plastered on his face. “I love you,” he whispered and then stole a kiss from the Swede, who now looked completely forlorn.

“Why are you suddenly so…” A thoughtful look touched his features and he glanced up towards the sky for a moment. “Cuddlesome?”

Varg let go of the blonde, the smile still attached to his face. “Do I need a reason?”

Pelle frowned at the question and shrugged, not sure how to reply. While he hadn’t known Varg for more than a few months, he hadn’t ever believed him to be the cuddly type, and he wasn’t. Something was definitely up, but he decided not to press the issue any further.

“Oh… I was supposed to ask you something,” the brunette remembered as they began wandering towards the gate. The weather was pleasant and the sun provided them with some heat, which was widely different from wintertime.

“What?”

Varg stopped walking and stood still for a few seconds, as if he had to gather his thoughts. The blonde lifted an eyebrow in return, wondering what was going on. Varg had been acting strange that day. He hoped it wasn’t something serious. Pelle wasn’t fond of surprises, it didn’t matter if it was of the bad or the good kind, he simply didn’t care for them.

“Well…” Varg said and took his hand in his own, squeezing it in a reassuring manner. “I had a small chat with Jørn after you went to bed… I know you don’t want to talk about the band right now, but-“

“No-no-no…” Pelle groaned. “I really don’t.”

The younger man heaved a sigh, annoyed with Pelle for being so childish. “Hear me out,” he said and smiled, hoping he would listen. The blonde was hesitant, but he nodded his head. “Okay… but briefly.”

“Yeah…” Varg said and rolled his eyes. “They want you in the band. Euronymous will never be part of it again, and you can choose the new guitarist if you’d-“

“You,” he said, his voice monotone. “I will do it if I can have _you_ on guitar.”

 

* * *

 

They were in the guest bedroom again. Varg was moping on the bed, his eyes glued to the ceiling and his ears occupied with whatever music Pelle had put on. It was yet another one of his strange bands, one of those bands Varg never would’ve listened to on his own. As the song ended, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Pelle’s usual humming. It meant that he was busy with something.

“What are you doing?” he asked and turned his attention to the vocalist. He lay on his stomach on the floor, next to the desk, writing what Varg assumed were lyrics.

“Hmm…” Pelle whispered in response before tossing a quick glance at the younger man. “Writing.”

“Writing what?”

Pelle lifted his shoulder in a half shrug, annoyed with Varg for having interrupted his chain of thought. The brunette waited a few moments, and then sighed. He was bored and missed his old rehearsal space. Seeing there was a baby in the house, he couldn’t play any instruments, and his fingers were yearning to fiddle with the strings of his guitar. The restlessness was beginning to overwhelm him.

“I need to do something,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but Pelle glanced up from his notebook and frowned, as if he couldn’t quite understand the younger man. “It’s nine a.m. on a Sunday. What is there to do?”

Varg shrugged at the question. He was standing on the floor now, his eyes studying the lyrics that had been so hastily scribbled down on the yellowing paper. A single sheet had come loose and was trapped under his foot. He picked it up and skimmed through the words.

“… Life Eternal?”

Pelle snatched the loose leaf from his hands and gave him a half-glare. “I never said you could read that.”

The eighteen-year-old rolled his eyes at the comment, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Don’t be like that. You know I adore everything you do.”

Pelle didn’t respond to the sweet words, he simply stared at the brunette with a blank expression on his face.

“… I would prefer to be devoid of your company for some time.”


	9. The Locked Chambers of His Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left :)

Jørn had switched on the television about an hour ago, as soon as his girlfriend had retired for the evening, stating that she wouldn’t change a single diaper until she had slept properly. The newly fledged daddy took it as an opportunity to get some alone time. A few weeks ago, he had purchased a movie that he hadn’t been able to watch, and he had put it on, hoping to get a few hours without any fuss from anyone. But as things often are in crowded houses, alone time is difficult to come by.

About twenty minutes into the action movie, Jørn felt his eyelids droop. When another ten minutes had passed, he was well on his way to dreamland. Just as he was beginning to snore lightly, there was an intrusive sound of raised voices. And then someone grumbled into his ear: “He’s insufferable.”

“… Huh?” was all the befuddled bassist managed to come up with, not sure what the blonde had even said. Pelle heaved an overly dramatic sigh in return. “Varg is being a nuisance,” he declared and plumped himself down on the sofa, looking and sounding exhausted.

“Oh,” Jørn said, wanting to roll his eyes at the comment. He was inwardly cursing himself for not having seen this coming.

“I need time to myself,” Pelle sulked and crossed his arms over his chest in a defiant manner. “Time to think…”

The older man sent the singer a sympathetic look. After his girlfriend’s pregnancy, he had become quite good at feigning interest in emotional outbursts, as if they held any validity at all. What struck him as odd were the changes in the blonde’s behaviour. Had he been angry with anyone but a few months ago, he would have wandered off into the woods, sacrificing animals and whatnot.

“Varg has your best interests in mind,” he said and smiled one of those fatherly smiles of his. He put a warm hand on his shoulder, patting it consolingly. “If there is one thing I know for sure, that boy’s crazy about you. He’d go to the end of the world for you. So, you shouldn’t be sulking about small things, even if he’s pestering you a bit… it’s just how love works.”

A knock on the open door stole their attention away from the topic. They gazed up, only to see Varg standing there, a white mug in his right hand and a shy smile attached to his lips.

“Here,” he said and handed Pelle the mug. It was tea, Pelle’s favourite. “A peace offering, if you will.”

“… Thank you,” the blonde said and accepted the mug, though somewhat reluctant in his movements.

“Oh, and by the way, Pelle,” Jørn began and got up on his feet. “There was a bunch of letters in the mailbox for you. Some of them seemed… odd.” When the bassist had retrieved the many letters, he handed them to the blonde, but he withheld one of the envelopes. The Swede responded by raising his eyebrows questioningly at him.

“Is that blood?” Varg asked, frowning deeply at the flashy red letters on the white paper. The red colour had been smudged all over the envelope and it was impossible to decipher the words.

“I believe it is. Is this something you’ve been expecting?”

Pelle drew his lower lip between his teeth, as if he wasn’t sure how to reply. “I know what it is,” he said after some time and then smiled. “Old friends from Sweden, I believe. Our sense of humour is… black.”

Jørn gave a mere shrug of his shoulders, obviously not interested in having a discussion about such sense of humour, or the use of blood. Thus he handed Pelle the envelope, thinking nothing more of it. Varg didn’t seem as convinced, but he didn’t argue. They had been experiencing some difficulties as of late and criticising the blonde wouldn’t be a clever move.

“I’m going to join my old lady in the bedroom,” Jørn said after some time. “Don’t stay up too late, you two. Luna will be devastated if her uncle Pelle prefers his bed to her company in the morning.” 

 

* * *

 

They had rented a new rehearsal space for Mayhem. It was a basement a couple of blocks away from Jørn’s house, nothing fancy by any means, but then again, they had never expected it to be glamourous. Yellow paint was peeling off the otherwise naked walls. Due to the lack of windows, a claustrophobic atmosphere had been created in the room. As if this wasn’t enough, the smell of death clung to the air, most likely a result of dead rodents in the walls. One had to keep in mind that they weren’t keen on playing beautiful music, and if one chose to look at it in that aspect, the room was quite perfect.

“Seems like your cup of tea,” Jan remarked with an amused tone of voice. He nudged the vocalist in the arm, chuckling in a playful manner. Pelle simply shied away from the touch. “… I suppose.”

“With a coffin in here… this could’ve been your new home!”

The Swede rolled his eyes at the comment. “Maybe I’ll bury you in the wall… after I have sucked you dry.”

Jørn burst out laughing at that point, his eyes welling up with tears. It wasn’t long until tears attempted to roll down Jan’s cheeks as well. The drummer was nearly rolling around on the floor. Varg simply stared at Pelle for a long time, wondering how it was humanly possible for a guy in his early twenties to be so clueless and innocent. He found it incredibly adorable and childlike, and Jan and Jørn’s laughter was infectious. While he had enough self-restraint to keep himself from laughing, he couldn’t help but to smile.

“Don’t laugh,” Pelle pouted. Insecurity and bewilderment clouded his features, causing the bassist to pull himself together, though with great difficulties. “I-I’m sorry!” Jan gasped through his laughter. “But… I-I don’t swing that way!”

It wasn’t until that moment realisation dawned on the vocalist, causing the colour to drain from his face.

“Let him be, Jan,” Varg said and attempted to put his arm around Pelle. The blonde was swift to move away, not in the right mood for displays of affection.

“Fine, fine,” the drummer hummed. “Let us go through some songs instead, before Pelle sucks me dry… or buries me in the wall.”

Pelle sent Jan a glare that could have moved mountains by its sheer intensity, but he said nothing further.

After about four songs, they had all taken notice of the fact that Pelle wasn’t into the music and was doing the songs mechanically, as if on duty. He ploughed through the lyrics in a manner that was very uncharacteristic of Dead’s usual performances. If anything, he sounded as if weary.

“Hey, this isn’t working so great,” Jørn said and sent Pelle a concerned look, one that was apologetic of the former incident. Pelle was sometimes insecure and took himself a bit too seriously, which could lead to hurt feelings. “We didn’t mean to… make you upset,” he attempted, but the blonde simply shook his head.

“Well, should we call it a day?” Jan asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Pelle simply shrugged in reply, not wishing to talk to anyone for the rest of the day. Varg felt a bit forlorn. The Swede had told him less than two weeks ago that he had missed the band, and that he had poured his soul into Mayhem and didn’t wish to move away from the project. With Øystein away, Varg couldn’t begin to understand his reluctance to perform.

“Maybe next time, you could bring some of the new lyrics along?” he suggested, hoping to lighten the mood. It earned him a half-glare from Pelle, one that said to leave it alone.

“You’ve written new songs?” Jørn asked, a hopeful tone to his voice.

“No.”

The brunette sent him a confused look. “What do you mean no?”

The frontman’s closed his eyes for a few seconds. His anger was visible. “I refuse to discuss any of this with any of you!” he declared and then fled from the room, slamming the door shut as he left. Jan and Jørn turned their attention to the eighteen-year-old, though he seemed equally lost as to what had just transpired.

“Is he fine?” Jan asked after some time, his forehead creased. The younger man rubbed his temples, silently cursing Pelle for being so bad at communication. Something had been amiss for quite a few days by then, and Varg had asked time and time again, but the Swede kept quiet about all that was eating away at him. For some reason, he wouldn’t allow for Varg to enter his life completely.

“He… I’m not sure,” the teenager sighed, running his right hand through his hair. “He doesn’t talk to me.”

“I better apologise,” Jan muttered. He felt guilty about having laughed at the Swede.

As soon as Jan had left the room in search of the blonde, Varg sunk down to the dirty floor and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t crying, and he wasn’t particularly sad, but he was confused.

“Something is up,” Jørn said and took a seat next to Varg on the floor. “I wasn’t sure whether to mention this or not, but… he isn’t well, is he?” The teenager shrugged helplessly in response. “He never confides in me… I cannot say if he’s well or not.”

“Look, Varg,” Jørn sighed. “Pelle is complicated. He is extremely introverted, and he has some deep-rooted issues, especially when it comes to trusting people. Even if he trusts someone, that doesn’t mean he thinks it acceptable to talk to them about all kinds of things… he struggles with this- this thing between the two of you. He has no idea how to deal with it.”

Varg let out a harsh breath and began twisting the ring on his finger, an authentic Viking ring he had bought in some dubious shop. He never removed it. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

“I paid the bills last night… someone has made a thirty minute call to Hungary, and several to Sweden. And… I know I shouldn’t have, but I was worried, so I looked at some of those letters. I didn’t open them, of course, but… one of them was from Hungary.”

The teenager frowned at this new piece of information. “The bloody one?”

“No,” Jørn said. The look on his face was that of worry. “You should try to get to the bottom of this, Varg. Pelle, he… he needs our help. If he’s messed things up in any way, we’ve got to be there, and you especially.”


	10. I Am Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of From the Ashes of the Dead :) part 3 is on its way!

They had fought that morning. Varg wasn’t certain what had triggered the heated discussion, a fact that weighed heavily on his heart. He knew that Pelle wasn’t well, that he was dealing with something, and Varg shouldn’t lose his temper around him in such a crude manner. But all his questions went unanswered. Pelle offered him nothing but a wall of incomprehensible silence and unintelligible mutterings. The more he was being pushed away, the more desperate he felt.

“You can’t just run away from every discussion!” Varg yelled as the Swede was reaching for the handle of the main door. He didn’t even turn to look at him; he merely slipped out the door and out of reach.

“Unbelievable,” Varg breathed to himself and withdrew to the guest room, his heart heavier than ever before.

Once inside of the room, the teenager stretched out on the bed. He attempted to find a solution to their issues, but nothing came to mind. There wasn’t a way of solving something one didn’t have information about.

“What are you hiding?” he whispered and turned to lie on his side. His gaze fell upon the desk and the stack of papers Pelle had abandoned; mostly sketches or notes that were nothing but figments of the mind. For some thought-provoking reason, the bloodstained envelope was at the bottom of the pile. Only a small corner was visible. This indicated that Pelle had attempted to hide the letter from his eyes.

“… Pelle,” he whispered to himself as he pulled the letter free, studying it with concerned eyes.

 

* * *

 

The phone rang. Jørn had to bite the inside of his cheek, hoping very dearly that his daughter would sleep through the loud rings. He was quick to jump to his feet and nearly ran towards the source of the terrible noise. As soon as he picked up the receiver, he realised that something wasn’t right. The sound of heavy breathing met his ear, almost like something out of a bad horror movie.

“Who is this?” he asked, thinking it must have been some bratty kids. “I don’t have time for bullshit like-“

“I _see_ you,” someone whispered in a hoarse voice. “Your daughter is in her crib… your wife is sleeping in the armchair… I’d like to stick my knife into them… twist and turn-“

“Who the fuck is this?” Jørn demanded, but the panic in his voice was too evident. The person started laughing, and the laughter was that of a madman. It sent shivers down his spine.

“They will bleed. And the baby will be sacrificed to his unholy self… he will devour her precious flesh with his teeth sharp as daggers. And the wretched screams of pain shall pierce through the night… yes, she will suffer. Death will never be sweeter,” the man continued. What came out was in a rough, gravelly voice, but Jørn could make out the words quite clearly. 

“You stay the hell away from my family!” he hissed, but the person only laughed in return. “I quite like your little family. Their blood shall repay your misdeeds. You will all burn in-”

Jørn put down the receiver at that point of the conversation, feeling sick to his stomach. His whole body was trembling from the frightful ordeal, and before his mind was able to cooperate, his legs had brought him to the nursery. He stood in the doorway, watching his girlfriend and child as they slept peacefully, so blissfully unaware of the threat at hand. While Jørn wasn’t a stranger to brainwashed cult members and their odd behaviours, they had never before targeted his family. It was terrifying.

“Jørn?” he could hear the teenager ask from behind him. While he had known it was Varg all along, he hadn’t been able to keep himself from shuddering. “Are you alright?”

“… Uh, yeah,” the bassist replied, but his pale complexion spoke different words. “Did you wonder about something?”

“No… well, yes, actually,” Varg stumbled over his words, inwardly cursing himself for being so obvious. The older man frowned in response.

“This…” Varg said and held up a letter. “It was inside of the bloodied envelope. It’s a threat made on Pelle’s life… and against his family. It says… it says ‘The Inner Satanic Circle’.

Jørn skimmed through the grim words and promises of harm and of death. Once he had read the foul thing, he shifted his gaze from the paper and stared at Varg, his eyes wide open.

“Where is Pelle?”

 

* * *

 

The three of them sat in the living room – Varg, Jørn and Jan. Sadness and worry pervaded the atmosphere of the room as they sat there, not certain how the night would turn out. Emma and the baby were in the bedroom on the second floor. They had reported the phone call to the police, but they had of course failed to detect the gravity of the situation. Jørn, being a concerned parent, had not tolerated their nonsense. This had led to a heated discussion between him and a particularly ignorant police officer. In the end, they had agreed to send a patrol car to the area, mainly because they didn’t have the patience to wait for Jørn to calm down. The car would remain in the neighbourhood for the rest of the night and they would come by the house every now and then.

“I hope he’s fine,” Varg whispered, breaking the all-embracing silence between them. Jørn could only nod in agreement, his face pale and his eyes tired. “He is,” he whispered in return. “He knows he has to be, for you.”

“… As long as they didn’t get to him first,” the teenager muttered.

“They haven’t.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Jan said, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He clutched the handle of a coffee mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Maybe the cops will find him,” he eventually muttered, taking a sip out of his coffee.

Silence descended upon them once more. They sat there with fearful faces, all of them expecting the worst, though none of them dared to express such grimness.

Jørn frowned, putting his mug down on the low coffee table before them. “I think I heard-“

The loud, rippling sound of a gunshot sliced through the air. All three of them ran in direction of the door, armed to the teeth with illegal weapons. Just as they reached the door, another gunshot was fired, and as they opened it, a hellish sight met their eyes. Jørn’s lawn had been turned into a satanic worshipping ground with a huge pentagram painted on the grass. An inverted cross stood in the centre of it. They had set it on fire, and through the flames, one could barely make out the contour of a limp body. The perpetrators were speeding away in their car, one of them waving his gun in their direction, but no more shots were fired.

“We need to put this out!” Jørn shouted. “Varg, get the water hose!”

The brunette didn’t respond to the order. He stood motionless, almost as if paralysed, and his gaze was fixed on the burning figure that was nailed to the cross. His mouth fell open, a silent scream stuck in his throat.

“Holy…” was all Jørn managed to say, and Jan was the only one who managed to stay calm and reasonable enough to get the water hose. In the distance, they could hear the sound of police sirens. Neighbours were exiting their houses, all of them curious about the fire and the gunshots that had been fired. And when Varg’s scream was finally released from the depths of his soul, it rang through the ears of the crowd like a warning sign of an apocalypse to come.


End file.
